Thousands of Words
by drama-princess
Summary: Giles considers himself ready for The First, but some battles can't be fought with words.


Author's Note: Buffy belongs to Mutant Enemy and everyone else implied. This is an idea that has been lurking about in my head for quite some time, so I finally got up the energy to write it. Dedicated to Storm (although I'm not quite sure she wants such a depressing fic) because she's utterly brilliant and tolerates my amateur dabblings in the Buffyverse. Especially this odd little fic.   
  
Set sometime after Conversations With Dead People.   
  
*  
  
**Thousands of Words**  
_by drama-princess_  
  
*  
  
When it became likely that The First would target him, Giles began to prepare himself. It was oddly like awaiting a debate at university. He would respond his father this way, he would answer his mother that way. His mouth twisted as he pictured himself, trading bitter words for harsh glances from James Giles. Some things would never change. His father was dead.   
  
It would be upsetting, but words could be wielded like weapons. The First understood this. So did Giles.  
  
He considered the possibility of facing Ben. He would have to answer for murder in the most final way. Giles rehearsed his arguments in his head. They weren't for The First. He had no interest in defending the way Ben had struggled, futilely, hands grasping weakly at the air, the way the breathe slowed and--  
  
Stop. Breathe. Remember it was necessary. Dawn had to be protected. Buffy had to protected. The world had to be protected. First, do no harm.   
  
There were other faces that occurred to him. Thomas. Deirdre. Phillip, Randall. They flitted sleekly across his memories, their features rotating fearfully in his mind.   
  
I'm not Ripper, he told the bathroom mirror. He hated the lines on his face. He picked up the razor. Ehygon is gone. Here he sank at the inevitable hesitation. And Jenny.   
  
He loathed it. Loathed the momentary greed that lurched within him. Chances were dead, Jenny was gone. That life had long since been snatched away. No incorporeal evil could be her. No matter how flawlessly it would mimic her playful laugh or the easy, languid grace of her limbs.   
  
Yes, he could face even Jenny. He would doubtlessly trip on her quick tongue. But he knew-- he was as solidly prepared for The First to take her face as he had been for another attempt of hers to make him use e-mail.   
  
The thought made him smile briefly. But it was no time for levity. He was ready. He would not concede.  
  
He mentioned as much to Xander.   
  
Yeah, I've got my punching gloves out for The First, Xander said, easing himself down onto the chair. After what happened to Will, I thought that. . . his voice trailed off, and Giles watched the younger man stare at the floor. Yeah, bring it on.   
  
Buffy refused to listen to him. Giles, I've faced The First, she said simply, raising a knife to examine the blade.  
  
Yes, I know, but--  
  
Giles! I'm doing my best!  
  
And then, there was Spike.   
  
Giles didn't need to ask Xander what he thought. Just like Angel, the unspoken mumble buzzed behind doors, clicked for attention. Buffy isn't equipped to handle this. She can't think straight. Too much to handle. Too much to do.  
  
Giles wished he could believe himself when he thought otherwise.   
  
Mr. Giles? The clerk's lips were the colour of half-healed bruises. He'd even begun to think like death. The girl extended a flower. It was a cheap red rose, like one from the petrol station, snug in its cellophane wrapping.  
  
her tongue toyed with a greying strand of chewing gum. This was either for you, or for that guy in, uh--  
  
Not for me, Giles cut in. He refused the rose with a single brush of his hand. They were never for him.   
  
He'd climbed up half a flight of stairs before it occurred to him.   
  
He started to prepare himself.   
  
Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a sexy fuddy-duddy? The shy inviting touch, her smile as they leaned in towards each other.  
  
You're not Jenny. You can't even begin to reproduce the woman she was. The crease of her brow, her expression falling as he turned away from her.   
  
I didn't know I was gonna fall in love with you. Her voice. Soft, sweet, faintly ashamed. The lilting tone as she moved closer.   
  
Stop it. Go away. I know what you are. You're a pathetic presence who can't even stand on two feet. You have to borrow even that.   
  
He swallowed against his constricted throat. There was nothing on the door. Perhaps the rose had been for another occupant in this lonely motel.   
  
He opened the door.  
  
For a moment he thought that he'd been right. The room was as silent and stuffy as it had been this morning. He could smell the cigarette smoke leaking in from next door under the lemon scent. It made him sick, the first few nights in. But then, he didn't want to go anywhere else.   
  
Jenny was lying on the bed. Not standing against the window, looking radiantly pale in the soft moonlight, her dark hair spilling against her shoulders. Not turning to him with a puzzled frown, her black eyes filled with questions. But lying, her hair brittle and her eyes like glass, her body twisted on the bed.  
  
Giles walked over to the toilet and threw up.   
  
He got used to it surprisingly quickly, all things considered. He walked into the room. He averted his eyes. He had a cot moved in, and ignored the strange looks at the request. He had pleaded with her to _speak _but she wouldn't, but he never stopped asking. He cried like a child on Saturday nights, when it was more likely that no one would see his red eyes. He clutched at his blanket, and sweated in the hot room. He moved rooms after the second night, but it was no use. She followed him there too.   
  
He held her crystal quartz necklace to his chest, and he invoked every god or goddess that he'd ever heard of. He poured his own blood into a tiny glass vial and melted it in a blue flame. He ran his fingers over a polished wooden cross, and imagined his pain dying on it.   
  
She said nothing. But lay there. Dead. And she never spoke.  
  
What do you want? God damn you! he cried one night, cradling his bottle of Scotch against his bare chest. He felt the tears sting but he couldn't cry. He took a slug of Scotch. He had to be up early tomorrow. Damn you, he whispered, his voice raw. He crawled back to his cot, feeling himself start to break. Damn you.   
  
The night after he tried to lead Buffy away from Spike, he wasn't sure how he would take it. Another night of Jenny's corpse, lying pale and broken on the bed. The human body was supposed to adapt to war. He hefted his paper bag, heavy with a bottle of scotch. Perhaps he'd get drunk enough, pass out on the floor. No one would want to see him tomorrow. He opened the door.   
  
His bed was empty. The room was silent.   
  
Giles stood in the middle of the room and laughed.   
  



End file.
